


one is not mad to make the leap

by atmos (devote)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Mutual Pining, as usual, don quixote i guess, inspired by maniac (tv 2018), starring crowley yearning, you’ve got to listen to pale blue eyes by the velvet underground
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-17
Updated: 2019-08-17
Packaged: 2020-09-05 21:00:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20279740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/devote/pseuds/atmos
Summary: He closes his eyes. Sees a thousand Aziraphales by his side, bleached white hair ruffled by the wind pouring through the open window, eyes bright and relentless against his. Sun spilling over his shoulders, song pulsing in his ears. Crowley has dreamt this for years and years, in unmade beds, in filthy taverns, in empty stables, in placid bathtubs, in this very bookshop on that very (lumpy) couch. He knows every crinkle, every curve of Aziraphale’s mouth.





	one is not mad to make the leap

It was a little past two in the morning in a London bookshop, and an angel and a demon had been drinking steadily for the past four hours. Crowley had been staring at Aziraphale for about all four of those hours, and he was starting to think he might regret the last few bottles of whiskey. But the drink was warm and easy in his stomach, and somewhere between dinner and now they’d migrated to Aziraphale’s stuffy backroom. Crowley was currently amusing himself by rifling through Aziraphale’s dusty piles of books while the angel slumped in a tattered old armchair and mumbled halfhearted warnings.

“Woolf, Oliver, Wilde…” He sighs, craning his head back to peer at Aziraphale around a teetering shelf. “You really couldn’t be any more predictable if you tried, could you, angel?” He steals a quick gulp from the glass perched haphazardly on a (somehow, two-legged) stool before wandering over to a dusty glass case in a dimly lit corner. “Alright, what’s this?” He cups his hands over the glass, peering at its contents until a tiny, vaguely familiar, matchbook-sized cluster of pages swims into view. Definitely odd, definitely indecipherable, definitely on brand for Aziraphale. “This… this a book for mice or something?” He snickers to himself. “Mice.”

Aziraphale twitches at the sharp bark of Crowley’s laughter, pulling himself upright in a burst of movement and making his way over to the glass case. “My dear boy, that’s the lost chapter of _Don Quixote_! Don’t you recognize it?” He slaps a hand clumsily against the glass in his excitement, waving the other one in the general vicinity of Crowley’s chest. “Remember, the rats, and the windmills, and the tunnel, and we fell in the moat…” He trails off, smiling dopily at some distant memory. 

Crowley squints at him, searching his own admittedly questionable memory. “You must be remembering someone else.”

Aziraphale shakes his head. “No, no, it had to be you, only you would’ve gone along with something like that.” He pauses. “You know, there’s a legend that anyone who reads it escapes into a fantasy world, so marvelous, so unimaginable, that they are forever lost to our reality. Fascinating stuff.”

Crowley scoffs, spine tingling. He _does_ remember, very distantly, huddling soaking and irritated by a fireplace, wishing dryly for a miracle, and hearing Aziraphale’s voice reciting a very similar human legend. “Okay, maybe I _was_ with you. How do you still have it?”

Aziraphale straightens up, or more accurately, rearranges himself against a shelf as primly as a completely wasted angel can. “You really don’t remember? I… I think… oh, my. It must’ve been ages ago. A dear, _dear_ acquaintance of mine fell into a tiny bit of a coma after he read it and, well, it might’ve been passed along to us in the shuffle.”

Crowley snorts out a delighted laugh, eyebrows flying up at the guilty tilt of Aziraphale’s tone. “Right, right, angel. Typical, just typical.” He pauses, ignoring Aziraphale’s fumbling excuses to process the angel’s words through the swirling haze in his head. “Coma, huh? Poor bastard. I s’pose that means the legend’s real. Humans got it right this time! Big woop.” He toasts the air with a sloppy swing of his arm, droplets of drink disappearing before they can spatter against Aziraphale’s books.

Aziraphale frowns, vanishing the remaining drops from the floor and giving Crowley a cross look as he turns away. “Well, I don’t know.” He squints at the tiny pages. “I mean. How would it even work? What would you dream of? If you read the chapter?” He rests a hand against the case’s clasp, back to Crowley and shoulders hunching the tiniest bit.

Crowley takes a long swig from his glass before he speaks, considering it. _You’re really asking me that, angel?_ He knows the answer immediately, knew it before Aziraphale even asked, but he’s not sure how to choose his words without scaring the angel off in a flustered sweep of feathers. Crowley’s been carrying the same words around for the better part of 6000 years, waiting for them to spill out in a bloody, soppy mess, but it’s been a long night. He’s tired. He’s drunk. He _wants._ The drink burns at the raw, red ache in his chest. What’s another act of self-indulgence? Aziraphale’s certainly got him beat there. He clears his throat, ignores the tremor in his hands, balls them into fists and shoves them into his pockets.

“Well. There’s this dream that I have. A lot. I’ve probably had it thousands of times now. It’s about us – just the two of us. We’re sitting in the Bentley. I’m driving somewhere, I don’t know where, but you’re sitting next to me in the passenger seat, warm and steady. Just like you always are. Like you’ve always been. And it’s just you and me. The radio’s playing something soft, quiet. The Velvet Underground, probably. Definitely not bebop.”

He closes his eyes. Sees a thousand Aziraphales by his side, bleached white hair ruffled by the wind pouring through the open window, eyes bright and relentless against his. Sun spilling over his shoulders, song pulsing in his ears. Crowley has dreamt this for years and years, in unmade beds, in filthy taverns, in empty stables, in placid bathtubs, in this very bookshop on that very (lumpy) couch. He knows every crinkle, every curve of Aziraphale’s mouth.

_If I could make the world as pure_  
_And strange as what I see_  
_I'd put you in the mirror_  
_I put in front of me_  
_I put in front of me_  
_Linger on your pale blue eyes_  
_Linger on your pale blue eyes_

He cringes a little. His dream self is disgustingly soppy. Clears his throat again. Gets back on track.

“Yeah. It’s you and me. We’re driving anywhere, anywhere at all. Maybe we’re going home, maybe we’re setting off on another trip, maybe we’re just getting lunch. And we’re… laughing. Laughing so hard I can’t breathe from it. I look over at you and there’s this huge smile on your face, and you’re yelling at me to watch the road, and I’m smiling so hard that it hurts. We’re... happy.”

The Aziraphale in his vision is loose-limbed, bright-eyed, turning back to look right at him, matching grin splitting his face wide open. He’s beaming with it, and it doesn’t matter if this time Crowley’s dreamt him a scarf or a book or a sandwich in hand, it doesn’t matter if they’re sailing through trees or city lights or snow – the warmth settling in his chest is always the same. His heart always trips over the stutter in Aziraphale’s laugh. The Aziraphale next to him never looks away.

He chances a glance upwards, now, at the Aziraphale in the bookshop – _his_ Aziraphale – and sees that the angel’s still turned toward the lost chapter, hand splayed against the glass.

They’re quiet for a long moment. “It’s not really a dream, I s’pose. More of a… fantasy.” It’s a lot more honest than he’d like. But he’s so, so drunk. And Aziraphale still won’t look at him.

Crowley exhales. Starts the same, slow work of fixing them back up again. He was right. They’re too bloody drunk for this. They’ve waited too long for this. He steadies himself, lowers his voice, words gentle and pacifying. “Look, angel… why haven’t you read it? What use do you have for it?”

The quiet lull in Crowley’s tone seems to startle Aziraphale into motion, turning him around, his eyes flashing with something that Crowley’s not quite sure how to name. “I don’t need to read it.” His hands are shaking. He steps toward Crowley with a nervous flutter, smoothing down his tartan waistcoat and swallowing hard. “I have you.”

Crowley stares back at him, mind stumbling into overdrive, defenses still only halfway up. “You… have. Me?”

Aziraphale lurches closer and curls his fingers over his wrists, pulling him towards him, and Crowley goes with a gasp, stumbling forward until he can feel Aziraphale’s breath on his cheek. He squeezes his eyes shut, arms rigid at his side, human heart pounding in his ears.

“Crowley, I think it might be best if we both sobered up right now,” Aziraphale says, calmly.

Crowley nods frantically, banishing the drink from his system and reeling at the sharp pang of horrified regret that pierces through him with newfound, unwelcome sobriety. He opens his eyes, head throbbing, jerking to pull his hands out of Aziraphale’s grasp. “Angel, I—”

Aziraphale silences him by tightening his hands against Crowley’s, eyes clear as he lifts one of Crowley’s hands to his cheek. Crowley’s shaking with it, alight with terror and wonder, mouth half-open as Aziraphale closes his eyes and kisses the inside of his wrist, a light brush of warmth, unbearably gentle, against the pulse that trips there. “My dear, dear boy,” Aziraphale murmurs, soft and careful, voice suffused with lifetimes of understanding, and the years rush back out.

“I was afraid it wasn’t real,” Crowley gasps out, hands shaking. “I was afraid it wasn’t—”

Aziraphale cuts him off, pressing his lips to Crowley’s and threading his fingers through the demon’s in one frantic movement. Crowley loses whatever else he meant to say, convulsively fisting his other hand in the front of Aziraphale’s shirt and kissing the angel back urgently in one hot slide of movement, falling forward against the warm chest before him. He shudders against the angel, tilting his head to soften the kiss before he breaks away with a gasp, chest heaving and hand still clutching at Aziraphale’s. “Wait, wait, hold on. What is this? Are you sure? Are you sure this time?” He hates how earnestly his voice comes out, hates the telltale tremble in it, but he has to be sure, he has to know, he has to—

Aziraphale traces his thumb over the back of Crowley’s hand, touch reverent and firm. “Yes,” he says on an exhale, leaning back towards the demon and pressing his lips tenderly against his forehead. “It’s this,” he whispers, pulling back slowly. He presses a kiss to Crowley’s eyelids. “It’s this.” He ducks his head to kiss him at the hollow of his throat. “It’s this.” He leans up to kiss him at the corner of his mouth. “It’s _this._” He seals his mouth against Crowley’s again, swallowing the groan that slips out there, and Crowley tumbles back against him, joy crowding up in his throat, eyes shutting from the force of it.

_This, always, only this._

**Author's Note:**

> heavily inspired by the incredible show _maniac_ (2018), which i just finished watching and can'trecommend enough. the _don quixote_ legend and dream sequence are both from the show; i just went a little nuts with the urge to write them from crowley’s pov.
> 
> the title is from _don quixote._
> 
> the song is “pale blue eyes” by the velvet underground :)
> 
> beta’d by the wonderful mary; thanks for saying “cuz they radiate homosexuality” and summing up the entirety of _good omens._


End file.
